


A Paper Tiger

by Kalashnikorn



Series: Tales from the Hunt [1]
Category: Mad Max (1979), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalashnikorn/pseuds/Kalashnikorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pressures from both the Armalite gangs and the MFP are starting to wear on Roop (Mad Max 1979).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Paper Tiger

Before the dawn light split the overgrown grass from the tree line, I was a mile deep into the woods. No, I’m not lost. Thanks for asking. I’ve been down this path countless times. Seventy acres can become awful small when you’ve spent every day of your life there, rattling about with only marching ants for company. Well, that’s a bit of hyperbole. There’s a lot of history out here. It’s hard to make history all by yourself.

This bridge, for example. Mum and I made it. Didn’t think we needed a bridge. I mean, look at this creek. Low enough to walk across without even getting the suede on your boots wet. But she bought the lumber, the nails, the wood stain, and hauled it all out here by herself. She looked so _proud_ of herself, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. We took a late-summer weekend to get it made, and at the time, I was a little bitter ‘cause I wanted to spend that time doing-whatever-I-was-into when I was twelve. Today, she looks at it with that same baffling pride. All I feel is a churning of shame and guilt, ‘cause I was a little shit the whole time. A little shit who couldn’t hammer a nail in straight to save his arse. And she says it’s perfect, which somehow makes it worse. But now I posses critical bridge-building skills. Yeah, that’s what everyone’s looking for, now that the world’s gone to shit.

Do me a favor. Pretend I didn’t say anything about the bridge. Put it out of your head. I’m not as much of a shit as I used to be, okay?

Focus on this instead. Here’s where we’re headed, this clearing. Sun’s up enough now. See, I know how to time this. You know, I love it when the sky’s like this, a hazy purple fading into orange. Once, I got my watercolours out and tried to paint from this very spot. But you know, it’s still kind of dark, right? I got the washout cup confused with my coffee and ended up with a big ‘ol stain across the sky. Romantic.

While I load the gun, let me explain something. Yeah, I know, I don’t have a traditional target. Don’t look at me like that. Do you know what this guy’s done? He’s that scag who led an assault on that Transcon One trucker family, just last week. And when you saw it on the news, what did it mean to you? That your package got intercepted in transit? Or that you’ll have to pay a little more for eggs or bread? It didn’t mean that you’d see the vultures gathering before the wreck came into view. It didn’t mean you’d spend the rest of the night marinating in the kind of death-stench that won’t wash out, no matter how hard you scrub. You didn’t have to see a father, still gripping his ratty old Mossberg in defiance. Surely, his teeth would’ve been gritted, had his head not been splattered across the road. The mother, I found in a nearby field, clad in only her own blood and god-knows-what from those scags. But the flies found her first. At least she didn’t have to see what happened to their daughter. I hope, anyway. 

Fifi acted like it was a routine traffic stop. Charlie made his own contribution to the mess on the road, and as per usual, that was all he contributed. And if you say jack shit about it to anyone? You’re weak. You’re breaking. You can’t handle this job. It’s a job for “men,” they say. And no matter what, someone else has seen something worse. Scuttle found his own cousin strewn across the pavement, a _phi_ painted into the dirt with her blood. I was “lucky” to find strangers.

So let me have this. Let me land a slug in that skunk-haired bastard. It’s just a picture. The real thing’s still at large. _I hope that makes you feel safer._ But for now, I’ll fire this gun. I’ll fire it ‘til his eyes are holes and my shoulder’s a purple welt. Every kick of the gun, every blast ringing through my ears, every hunk of lead that comes screaming from this barrel is meant for those who drag the world deeper into hell. The scags. The cowards. The apathetic.

 

Maybe I am lost.


End file.
